A Chat Over Tea
by ficmonger archive
Summary: Jervis is having some trouble with the March Hare and needs to vent. So who better to tell his troubles to than his favorite teapot-dwelling confidante? Hattercrow and Riddler/Hatter friendship, if somewhat vitriolic. Rated T for language and mentions of violence/mental illness.


**Content Warning:** Mentions of murder/violence; foul language; OCD things

xxxxx

"—And _God forbid_ he should ever get up off of his skinny duff and cook once in a while, pick up after himself, bleach the blood out of the bathtub,_noooooooo._ No, he expects me to tidy up after him while he's gallivanting around Gotham offing civilians at his leisure like the Spanish fucking Inquisition or something, doing whatever the hell he pleases whenever he likes. Well, if he thinks I'm going to putter around the house awaiting his return that he might deign to give my existence meaning by producing yet another mess for me to clean up _then at end of **four**, I shall say goodbye. And then at end of **five**, I shall go! _We'll see what he thinks then, _hm?_When he's had some time to wallow in his own filth with no one to— Edward, are you even listening to me?" Jervis replaced his teacup upon its saucer seriously, glaring at his "conversational" companion as if he'd hopped up on his chair and hocked a wad of phlegm at their shared tray of biscuits. Instead, The Riddler sat across the table with his head propped up in one hand, staring blankly into a speck of oblivion somewhere behind Tetch's right ear. He sighed heavily at the question, but did not will his eyes to focus as etiquette should like him to. "A man is twenty-nine years old but has only had five birthdays. How is this possible?"

Jervis gave an irritated groan and rolled his eyes. "Because his birthday falls on a leap-year Edward, and he'll have had ten-thousand-five-hundred-and-fifty-one _un_birthdays by the time he's halfway to ten, now_please _listen to me, this is very important… _Important. Unimportant. Important._ Mrrph."

Edward stared at him with an opaque grimace and bit back at least a dozen smart remarks all at once, as if he couldn't believe that the Hatter was doing just what he'd always done. He could already imagine how the conversation would continue from there on, if he wasn't careful about it.

_"Jervis, you're insane,"_ he would say, and the Englishman would tut like the epicene fop he was and reply, _"I should think we prefer the term **mad**, Dormy,"_ and then sooner or later they'd get on the subject of ravens and writing desks, and God knew he didn't want to go there. If "Dormy" knew himself at all, he wouldn't walk away from that one without an existential tantrum or two, as his hatred for unanswerable questions left him feeling awfully small inside. Jervis knew that too. Bastard.

Mustering up all of the practicality and benevolence in his stupid little body—more out of self-defense than concern for his friends' brainless relationship— Eddie welled a ball of half-hearted advice up in his head. "Well look, if Jon is that hellish to live with, why don't you erect a chore chart or something?" Jonathan would hate that. And it would be hilarious.

"No, no, no," Jervis said, shaking his head to and fro, "You don't understand at all."

The only thing that kept Edward from leaping out of his chair, red-faced and furious, was to repeat to himself that it wasn't _he_ who misunderstood, it was Jervis. _Jervis_ was the dense one; he was so dense that he couldn't see that there was nothing not to understand. He was the dense one. He was the dense one. He was the dense—

Eddie tapped himself on the side of his face three times and forged onward, patience thinning and twisting into odd shapes, just like his hairline. _"Well,"_ he said firmly, "maybe you _should_ leave, if this is of such_dire consequence." _Edward cared so little; he didn't even remember what the issue was in the first place. Jervis's lower lip jutted out in misery. "Oh no—no, no, no—I couldn't _really_ do that." He began to fuss with the tablecloth he'd laid out, scrunching it up in ripples by pushing his two forefingers around the flat surface aimlessly. The Riddler rolled his eyes. "Why not?" This ought to be good.

"Well, I—it's because I love him. But, Dormy, I suppose you wouldn't understand that."

_'Oh my God.'_

What Edward could only assume were crocodile tears began to well up in his friend's eyes, but regardless of their frankly questionable legitimacy, he'd played the 'understanding' card one too many times; whether he was aware of this or not was devastatingly moot, as the so-called Door Mouse felt his already meager sympathies dry up all at once. He had absolutely no patience for romance, nor for people who tried to dictate what he did and did not understand, and he especially had no patience for Jervis's particular brand of melodramatics. He was done.

"Well then," he began harshly, rocking his chair back with his heels as The Hatter began to sniffle. "Do his fucking laundry, how about."

Much to his delight, the Door Mouse was not invited back to tea for several weeks following.


End file.
